White Lines in Western Media
by JForward
Summary: Jeff Winger is the height of fashion. That's the only reason he almost never takes off his watch. He's left handed; that's the only reason he always wears it on the right. There's no way that Jeff could hide anything under that, right? [TW for implied/referenced self harm.]
1. Chapter 1

W/N: I might make this into a series. I don't know if it'll be in order. IDK I'm really losing faith in my fics. I've started taking down the ones that aren't very good. I need to stop writing at 4am. Instead I'm writing this at 4pm. Please give me creative criticism to help me improve. Alright, here we go… enjoy.

The last day had sent Jeff reeling, struggling to deal with memories of a time when he wasn't the cocky, self-assured man he had become. Despite it all? He actually trusted Shirley, he'd grown to like these people, this group of _friends _that he hadn't had for such a long time. Then it turned out that she was responsible for so much of his life, for his reasoning that he had to be a hard man, that he couldn't show emotion - and yeah, maybe it was more to do with his dad going than anything else, but damn - she'd messed him up big time. Anger pushed him to challenge her at the stupid foosball table, taking off his ridiculously expensive watch, putting it aside as they competed fiercely - and then, suddenly, they were at an impasse.

When the rage had faded and they'd realised everything wasn't as bad as it had once been, they began to practice just how they were going to brutalize those Europeans the next day. By the time they finished, both were smiling, with a vicious pleasure at the idea of taking out those assholes. He'd rolled his sleeves up awhile back, having completely forgotten about the watch he'd removed. Trusting Shirley, caught in the moment - he had picked up the accessory, not realising her eyes were on him as he started to put it on.

"Jeffrey? What's that?" he looked around at Shirley's question, realising where she was looking, and went pale.

"It's, uh, my watch." he replied, doing it up as quickly as possible, but her hand reached out, intercepting his movements. Her eyes were on his face, forcing him to meet them as she slid the watch away again.

"Jeffrey, I have two young boys. You think I don't spend every minute of my life being scared about this kinda thing?" her eyes moved down to his arm, turning it over gently in her hands, looking at the mark on his wrist. "How old is this?" she asked, quietly, seeing the way his throat hitched and the hint of fear in those bright blue eyes of his. "Did I cause-?"

"No." Jeff said, quickly, "No, it's a lot more recent than that, Shirley. If it was that old, it'd be completely faded." he let out a shaky breath, seeing the way she almost gingerly held his strong arm, the thick white mark displayed up. "I don't like to talk about it. It's not something I've ever really shared with anyone, okay? I'd like it if you could keep this between us."

Shirley's expression was breaking his fucking heart right now. She looked so utterly disappointed in him. "Jeff, there's so many other options here. You really need to find the lord, He would never let-"

"Spare me the sermon, Shirley, it was thre- it was awhile ago, alright? I'm over it now. Just a stupid thing I did at a bad time." she still looked so disappointed in him. Easing back, Jeff freed his arm, starting to put his watch on again, the leather band covering the scar easily. "Just don't mention this to anyone else, alright? We've already talked about this. You're a pot stirrer. You stir the pot." she gave a hint of a sad smile at the mention of their old joke. "Don't worry about me. I can handle myself. Always could." then he patted her on the shoulder, turning to go.

"Jeffrey?" Shirley called after him, and he turned to look at her. "Would you like to go out tomorrow? For a movie. After we show those sausage-brains who's the boss?"

He smiled at her.

"Sounds like a plan."


	2. Chapter 2

W/N: I might write an analysis but okay I do see Jeff as having a history of stuff like this. Knowing people I know, and knowing myself, I can read a lot of his personality - well anyway. Just tell me if you think I'm being OOC. Only way I can improve.

So many secret sex was kinda sneaky and unfair on the group, but fuck it, he was a man of needs and Britta - although a bit of an airhead, despite what he'd originally thought of her - was still hot. Still very worthy of banging. After one of their hidden, ahem, sessions, they were laying together on the bed. His arm was loosely around her, she was resting on his chest. He'd just been contemplating getting dressed, reinforcing the fact this was not a _thing_, and heading off. But then he felt her fingertips gently brushing his right wrist, and felt himself stiffen. And not in the normal way.

"Jeff.." her voice held pity, reminding him just how much he really hated being pitied. "Is this what I think it is?" damnit all to hell. Her fingertip was trailing over the mark, making him flinch back, pulling his hand away, disentangling himself from her. Jeff moved out of the bed, reaching quickly for his underwear, tugging them on. "Jeff!" Britta had sat up, pulling the blanket up to cover her chest, "How old is that? You need to talk about this. This is an important thing -" she was sliding out of the bed behind him, but he totally ignored her, now tugging his jeans on. Britta going psycho-logist on him wasn't what he wanted to deal with right now. Doing his belt up, his hand had just rested on his shirt when she took ahold of his arm.

Looking up at her, Jeff jerked away, tugging his wrist from her grip. She was looking upset, now, but he refused to tolerate it. "This, Britta, is none of your business." he snapped.

"But Jeff, this is a sign of your deep emotional issues! Cutting your wris-"

"SHUT UP!" she startled at his shout, the anger in his face. "Britta. I _do not _want to talk about it. Get it? You don't get to mention this to anyone, you don't get to use this to try to _therapize _me, you don't get to - you know what? This conversation is over." he put on his watch, pointedly covering up the white line on his arm. Then stormed out of the room, leaving Britta staring almost sadly at his back. Jeff Winger didn't care. He didn't need pity, or help. He'd gotten over that when he'd rescued himself from his own suicide attempt.


End file.
